


Love Unknown

by CeleritasSagittae



Category: Dragon Age (Comics), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Background Relationships, Character Study, Character of Faith, Gen, Minor Alistair/Female Warden, Nostalgia, Religion, set just before the Silent Grove comics for those curious about the timeline, though it really is a background thing here, to be precise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 04:45:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18024941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeleritasSagittae/pseuds/CeleritasSagittae
Summary: Zevran still goes to the Chantry when he gets the chance, to pray and light candles for the dead.He just doesn't use the front door.





	Love Unknown

**Author's Note:**

> _In honor of the day._

Paranoia was a funny thing.

 _Vigilance_ , is what Fíriel probably ought to have called it—“In Peace, Paranoia” sounded just plain  _wrong_ , despite the alliteration.  But the fact of the matter was, there was something incredibly comforting about the idea that her ability to notice things that were off–in this case, two votives that hadn’t been lit at the start of her interview with Mother Leanna–was an irrational quirk rather than an entirely justified response to a world that was out to kill her.  She didn’t know whether that said more about her or about the state of Thedas.

There was no point in alerting the woman.  Anyone stealthy enough to light and place votives without Fíriel noticing would have attacked by now if they were hostile, and the last thing she needed was an excuse to send the old biddy into histrionics on the wickedness of this generation (as exemplified by their refusal to tithe).  So, after a quick meander through the nave and a couple of discreet peeks into the sacristy, she made her way up to the balcony, where the poor and degenerate gathered to worship, safely out of sight of Amaranthine’s gentry.  There, at the balcony’s edge, head bowed low enough that the railing blocked Andraste from its view, knelt a cloaked and hooded figure with a pair of daggers strapped to the back.  As she approached, she heard it humming faintly, a plainsong melody vaguely reminiscent of the few Chants she’d been forced to attend in her tenure as Arlessa.

“You know, you could have used the front door,” said Fíriel.  "I may not be able to be everywhere at once, but I’m pretty sure Amaranthine is at least reasonably Crow-free at the moment.“

The figure remained still a few moments before lifting its head and casting back its hood.  “Ah, but where would be the challenge in using the front door?”

She laughed as she crossed the rest of the distance to the balcony’s edge.  “It’s good to see you again,  _lethallin_.”

Zevran Arainai smiled as he rose and turned to face her.  “And you as well, my dear Warden.  You look radiant as always—your Alistair must be treating you well, then?”

“ _Immensely_ , not that it’s any of your business.  And you?”

"As you and he have made clear to me on many an occasion, he does not treat me at all.  But—despite this grievous lack in my life, I have continued to manage.”

Fíriel found herself laughing again.  There was something about Zevran’s presence that inevitably buoyed her heart, to the point that whenever he returned (always too briefly) she felt a pang for what she had forgotten she missed—those halcyon days before Warden politics and Fereldan politics and the looming shadow of the Crows had crowded out the spirit of re-creation that had risen in the Blight’s wake.  “Well, if you have the time, I have a whole Keep of Wardens who need to burn off some excess… everything.  Some of them might even remember you.”

“You, my friend,” he said, raising a brow, “are speaking from a position of base ignorance.”

Fíriel smirked.  “Five gold they’ve forgotten all about you?”

"Ha!  Easy money.”

She followed him out the window, down the coining, and back into the streets of Amaranthine.  “So,” she said as they passed the tavern, “how goes your quest?  I saw you have at least two more kills under your belt.”

“I do,” said Zevran.  “One of them was small fry—more of a death-broker than a death-dealer, so, still very important, but the other?”  His grin suddenly turned feral.  “He was in charge of training the next generation of little assassins.”

Fíriel shuddered and warded herself.  “Fen’Harel take his soul.”

"He snapped the neck of one of his acquisitions in front of the rest of us,” he said, “just so we would know how much power they had.  A tradition to welcome new recruits, if you will.”

“Zevran, that’s _horrible_!”

“Yes, and for that reason he can torment little children no longer.”

“And you lit a _candle_ for him?” she said, shaking her head.

Zevran only laughed, and shrugged.

They passed under the city gates, shielding against the setting sun with their hands as it sank below the horizon.  They exchanged the latest idiocies of their lives, as only people who have unexpectedly found themselves aging can, while the fireflies came out and began to illuminate their path back to the Vigil.  "Tell me, Fíriel,” he said as they caught the first glimpse of the keep ahead, “where do the Dalish believe the wicked elves go when they die?“

"If you’re suggesting we were threatened with withering in the Void if we misbehaved when we were _da'len_ , you’re mistaken,” said Fíriel, giving him a sharp look.  "You could risk getting stuck wandering the Beyond if you were unburied, but that was reserved for… only the most despicable sorts, the ones I lock in the Deep Roads straight after the Joining.“

"And, presumably, those without a clan to bury them.”

She snorted.  "Don’t worry,“ she said, hand straying to the pouch holding her Warden’s Oath, "I’ll have company with me.”

“I am well aware.  Now—will said company be occupied when we return?  I do have some news that concerns him…”

He stayed in Amaranthine only a day.  Fíriel lost her gold, but Zevran was fonder of it than she was, and it was worth it to see his face—and her Wardens’—light up.  She, Zevran, Alistair, and Oghren stayed up till nearly dawn drinking, and for a few moments she could have sworn she was in a memory of the Beyond.

But like memories, this, too, faded, until she was left standing on the ramparts of Vigil’s Keep and seeing if she could catch any final glimpses of a man that lived in the shadows.

It wasn’t until two days later, as she and Alistair deliberated walking into the worst and best laid trap of their lives, that she realized what Zevran had been trying to tell her.

And Fíriel cursed her myopic heart.

**Author's Note:**

> _\- So, are you a very religious man, Alistair? I am curious. I believe I heard you say you were raised in an abbey?_   
>  _\- I was raised in a castle. I was schooled in the abbey. As far as being religious… I don’t know. Not especially. What about you? Not in your line of work, I expect._   
>  _\- Why do you say that? I happen to be quite devoted, in my way, as most Antivans are._   
>  _\- Truly? But you kill people. For money._   
>  _\- And I ask forgiveness for my sins from the Maker every chance I get. What manner of monster do you think I am?_   
>  _\- But… you ask forgiveness and then you go right on with your sinning?_   
>  _\- The Maker has never objected. Why should you?_   
>  _\- I… have no idea._   
>  _\- Well there you go. Perhaps you ought to think about asking for a little forgiveness yourself, hm?_


End file.
